


The Fëanorians and the 7 Deadly Sins

by harnatano (orphan_account)



Series: We are anathema [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fëanorians' sufferings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4099203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/harnatano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't really know what this is but I've been wanting to make a connection between the sons of Fëanor and the 7 Deadly Sins for long, so here it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fëanorians and the 7 Deadly Sins

**Author's Note:**

> nsfw - tw: eating disorders, depression, death, abuse, alcoholism, non-con. And a lot of daddy issues.

Maedhros: Greed

'Excessive or reprehensible acquisitiveness'

He wants them all. Not only the Silmarils, but everything, everyone. His brothers for instance. He wants to protect them all, to keep them around. After Angband, he needs to have them around. His brothers and Fingon. Without them, he’d lose his sanity, he’d become the one he’s so afraid to become. So he keeps them around, he keeps everything that reminds him of his youth, of the old days, of his mother, of the friends he had lost and killed. Each time he sees something that reminds him of all this, he must have it. He’d pay any price to have it. These possessions, they help him covering the fire that burns within. The fire left by his father, his inheritance. He must cover it, he must hide it with possessions, all kind of possessions, filling this void inside.

And he wouln’t let anyone touch what he possesses. The Enemy took everything from him: his pride, his beauty, his hand, his joy, what remained of his innocence. Morgoth raped the life out of him, he fucked him through his agony and filled him up with darkness, with gore, with despair and tears. But he will not let the enemy take his sanity. And the few things he managed to keep, to win afterwards, he’d never let anyone have them. His whole existence is gathered in his belongings. He collects. But it’s never enough, he needs more, it's endless. The others say he’s mad, they say these possessions are useless. His brothers say the only possessions that matter are the Silmarils. But they’re wrong, they’re all wrong. Without these ‘useless things’, he’d drown. So he clings onto them, like he clings on Fingon, on Maglor. He piles them up and hides under them, covering this fire, extinguishing it, smothering it. Take them away from him, and you’d take his sanity away.

\--

Maglor: Pride

'Quality or state of being proud'

He was the best. He knows, he knew he was the best, everybody in Tirion and beyond knew he was the best. His music... even the Ainur loved it, Manwë himself cried tears of joy when his fingers danced on the strings of his harp.

Whatever they say, he’s still the best. His music is different now, deeper, stronger, faster. They say it’s more violent, but they’re wrong. It’s not violence, it’s the passion that burns in his heart, the fire he had set and watched, the cries of the friends he killed in Alqualondë, his brother’s cries when the ships burned and when the smoke reached the dark sky, the tears in Nelyo’s eyes when Fingon brought him back. His music is full of all this, and that’s what makes his music the best in Arda. Not because it’s more beautiful, more melodious, but because in his music are all the cries of Arda, all the pain and the violence of the world. He’s the only one who can hear and translate this misery into an harmony. He needs to play, he needs to compose and to write. Fire burns his hands when they are not on the harp, it consumes his mind when he doesn’t compose. Music, notes, tunes, words, they’re like flames swirling in his soul. If he doesn’t compose, if he doesn’t play, these flames will devour him from inside. Yet, this fire, it’s also what makes him who he is: The best. A blessing and a curse. His music is truth translated into notes. And he knows that Iluvatar himself must be listening to it, and how jealous he must in his Timeless Halls...

\--

Celegorm: Lust 

'To have an intense desire or need'

He watches them. All of them. Boys and girls, they all have something, a smile, a glint in their eyes, a movement that makes want them. Delicate fingers brushing against the silk of a robe or a bedsheet, long hair caught into beautiful braids or tangled around his fingers, exhausted body spread on the bed, breathless, heavy, sweating... It reminds him of the batterfield, or the hunts, of the warmth of a beast just before he kills it. Strong and delicate bodies crying their dispair or their pleasure; the tune is the same, the movements aren’t very different and the intentions... are very close as well. He wants his lovers to cry his name, he wants them to writhe and he wants agony to shine on their face when they come.

He fucks. His cock is but a spear and he impales, one after another, he takes them, ragefully,selfishly, caring for his own pleasure. His partners are nothing, they could be anyone, they could be no one. At this point he doesn’t care. His body on fire, a painful fire spreading through his veins, the flames licking his skin and rolling over him like a wave of agony. He needs that. That’s how he feels alive, the only thing that makes him feel alive, when the rage of the orgasm rips through him and leaves him panting against the other - whoever they are. In the aftermath, the fire seems to be exinguished. The embers are still there, threatening, but not now, not so soon. Now, he can sleep, a dreamless sleep.

\--

Caranthir: Wrath

'Strong vengeful anger or indignation'

He can’t help it. A simple detail, a word, a look... anything can drive him mad. If he could make it stop... would he? The wrathful fire his father was carrying burns within him too, and it burns painfully. Fists clenching at his side, flames burning in his guts, blinding him as rage overtakes him, as he screams and spits and curses those who dare to provoke him. They knew,. They have been warned.

It burns. But he doesn’t regret. This is who he is. He will not make any effort to change, he will not calm down. Why would he? He feels like a bomb, ready to explode with any spark. His skin burns, his head spins, he’s blinded by the the flames of his own rage and he would run and run and smash everything in his way just to let it burn, to let it explode once and for all. But it’s never enough, it always comes back. Wrath. Like a punch in the guts, like a loud voice in his head erasing all thoughts and keeping him away from sanity. He has learned to embrace it, to accept it, to allow this wrath to take over him; He and his wrath are but one, he’s a fireball devastating all those who stand before him.

\--

Curufin: Envy

'Painful or resentful awareness of an advantage enjoyed by another joined with a desire to possess the same advantage'

As a child, it was his father. He couldn’t help but watch his father working, admiring his work and deep inside, he was already jealous of it. He wanted the same skills, the same power, the same praises. He wanted everyone to look at his work and to admire it, just like they did with his father’s work. That’s why trained and worked so much, days and nights, learning from his father all the secrets of the forge. But his father never said all the secrets. He kept them away from him. And he knew that, and that was infuriating, unfair. He was his son, his favorite son, his student, the same fire burned within him, he deserved to be as skilled, as praised, as loved as his father was.

He can’t keep his eyes off of it. Not only he wants it, but he wants to be the one who made it. The necklace, Finrod’s nicklace. Finrod’s power. Finrod’s realm. Finord’s people. Everything Finrod possesses, he needs it. He does everything he can to win, to take, to steal, to rip these possessions from his cousin. His brother beside him, he cannot lose. Because he deserves it. And when finally, finally, he possesses Finrod, when the golden king writhes around his cock and cries his name, he thinks he’s winning. As Finrod comes into his palm, he’s convinced that he’s raping him, raping everything from him and oh yes, he will keep everything for himself.

In the end, Finrod loses everything. But he loses too. He loses their game, he loses the battle, and he loses his son.

\--

Amrod: Gluttony

'Excess in eating and drinking'

There’s a void. A deep, dark void within him. In his mind, in his body, in his life. A void his twin used to fill. But his twin is gone. And this terrible, painful emptiness seems to suck him up. He falls, the fall is endless, and he knows what he will find at the end: flames. Not the flames that took his brothers, but dark flames that threaten to dig deeper into his soul.

He eats and he drinks. Eveything, anything, searching in vain for something that will fill this emptiness, that will help him stand on his feet. He clings on the bottles and in the depths of the night, when he’s filled with alcohol and food, when his stomach cries its agony, wine running through his veins, he thinks he can see him, his twin, the second half of himself. He hears him, he talks to him, he sings with him. But in the morning light, as regret and pain rise again, he realizes bitterly that it was just an illusion. Another illusion. Just a dream... but what a sweet dream. He cannot stop, this emptiness has to be filled again and again. It comforts him. Without his twin, he’s nothing, but as he fills himself he feels like he’s existing. He’s solid. He takes some place. He clings on this feeling, it clings on his illusions and he kills time, until time decides to kill him.

\--

Amras: Lazyness

'Disinclined to activity or exertion: not energetic or vigorous'

His hands have never trembled before. When he guided his horses, when he shot an arrow, when he applaused Maglor’s masterpieces, when he helped his mother, when he shook his twin’s hand, they didn’t tremble. They weren’t trembling when he sworn the Oath. They weren’t trembling in Alqualondë. Why are they trembling now, on this boat? His father askes him to help Moryo with the sails, but he can’t, he’s trembling too much. His father notices it, but he doesn’t say a word. The look in his eyes talks in his place. There is a threat, there is a warning in those terrible grey eyes. He shouldn’t be weak, he knows that, but as the screams echoes again in his ears, his friends’ screams, he feels his strengths leaving him. He just wants to lay on the floor, on the cold wooden floor and to sleep. He wants to forget the blood that is still on his hands, he wants to go back home.

He knows he cannot give up, but what if he could go back? Go back and sleep and forget? His twin rests his hand on his shoulder and smiles. “We must be strong, Umbarto.” He nods but he knows he’s not strong. Not anymore. He doesn’t want to go on, he cannot go on. He feels tired. He wants this madness to end, he wants it to stop and he wants to scream these words to his brothers, to his father, to the sky and the sea! But he doesn’t have the strength to scream.

Yet, he will scream one last time, when the flames and the smoke will surround him, and then he will sleep. At last.


End file.
